


A Gift of Understanding

by Jaye_Voy



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaye_Voy/pseuds/Jaye_Voy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven gets a surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift of Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2003. Although there are some tweaks, the story's contents (and its flaws) are mostly intact.  
> Set around the time of "Day of Honor", when Chakotay's attitude toward Seven began to change. I go by the original birthdates for Chakotay (2335) and Seven (2348).  
> Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the property of Paramount. No infringement is intended or profit made.

Seven of Nine walked stiffly to the cargo bay, acutely aware of the eyes upon her as she made her way down the corridor. The recently liberated drone could sense the stares boring into her back. Logic indicated that fear, anger, possibly disgust radiated from her newly acquired crewmates.

How else would they react to a Borg in their midst? And not just any Borg, but the one that propelled Voyager into the fluidic realm of Species 8472 against their will *and* tried to assimilate them upon their return to normal space.

Her mouth tightened as she recalled those critical moments on the bridge. She'd been extremely relieved to be reunited with her fellow drones. The endless sea of whispering voices soothed her mind. It was home. But soon enough they were gone forever.

Now there was near silence, only her own thoughts echoing in vast spaces of her consciousness. She still couldn't understand how she'd failed in her mission to assimilate this tiny vessel and its imperfect inhabitants. It was a mystery how easily she had been distracted from her goal by a single unfamiliar voice.

The tenor of Chakotay's thoughts differed from anything she had experienced in her years as a drone. He had cut through the others' presence like a legendary siren, his song rising above them all to beckon her to her doom. He touched the soul of Annika, long-abandoned and buried but still clinging to some dim memory of uniqueness. Chakotay's...individuality...had stirred something in her, and in that moment of weakness she had lost everything. Her Collective, her purpose, her place in the universe.

Her home.

Now she was cut off from all she had known, adrift in hostile waters with neither compass nor sextant, and no safe harbor in sight.

As the cargo bay door slid open Seven dismissed her musings as irrelevant and focused her mind on the welcoming blankness of her coming regeneration cycle.

She stopped short at the sight of a figure standing before her alcove.

***************

Commander Chakotay was the last person Seven expected to see. His hostility toward the Borg had been obvious from the moment they met. He had never trusted the Borg to keep their word, breaking Captain Janeway's agreement the second the Collective tried to alter the terms. She suspected his main regret in exterminating the drones that had transferred to Voyager was that she had not died with the rest.

Strangely though, Seven never sensed any of those negative feelings directed toward her during their link. He had seemed to genuinely want to reach her, to know her, his own aura warm and caring.

Of course, once he got what he wanted---Seven incapacitated---he was gone from her mind like the rest. Leaving her empty and alone.

In the first weeks of her re-established humanity, the commander had continued to be openly distrustful. But he seemed to have mellowed in the last few days, providing Seven with duty assignments and giving her opportunities to interact with the crew.

Not that the crew particularly desired to interact with *her*.

In any case, his attitude toward her was irrelevant. Seven was now a member of Voyager's Collective, and he was second in its hierarchy. By the protocols she---they all---lived by, she was at his command.

As he turned at the sound of her entrance Seven noted the sharpness of his profile, and how different his face looked when seen in full.

Chakotay's dark, expressive eyes, as well as the tightened muscles of his mouth and shoulders, conveyed tension. She straightened her spine another millimeter or two in reaction and gave a nod of acknowledgement. "Commander."

"Seven of Nine." The reply was just as formal; even so, Seven couldn't help note the tone and timbre of Chakotay's voice. It had a...texture, a softness, that was pleasant to the ear. She was surprised to witness a slight hesitation before he continued, "I wondered if I may speak with you a moment."

Seven clasped her hands behind her back at parade rest. "Proceed."

"Yes, well." Chakotay cleared his throat. One tawny hand rose to tug at his ear. Seven simply waited until he took a deep breath and spoke. "I wanted to apologize."

Confusion and surprise disturbed the calm order of Seven's thoughts. Based on the evidence of their past dealings she had expected a lecture on her behavior, a reiteration of protocols, even a homily on the joys of individuality as the Captain and the holographic doctor were wont to subject her to.

But an apology? That was not a permutation she had considered. "Apologies are irrelevant," she intoned in proper Borg fashion. Then, intrigued in spite of herself, her stance and voice softened. Her "Elaborate" came out closer to a request than she originally planned.

Chakotay held her gaze. "I've been rather hard on you since the Doc released you from Sickbay, Seven. Once you were severed from the Collective, I shouldn't have continued to react to you as if you were still a Borg. You deserved to be given the benefit of the doubt, the same as any other Voyager crewmember. And for that I'm sorry."

He then relaxed slightly, his eyes twinkling as if inviting her to see the humor of the situation. Her lips instinctively quirked in response to Chakotay's own curving into a half-smile, the anomalous indentations on his face known as "dimples" briefly making their presence known as he continued, "I'm afraid in this case my Borg-blinders kept me from seeing that 'ex' marked the spot."

Strange, that her facial muscles seemed so primed to smile in this man's presence, when they had not done so for almost two decades. Seven again resisted the urge to display enjoyment, but she knew her own eyes reflected his pleasure in the badinage. "It is interesting that you limit your apology to recent encounters." She arched a brow. "Am I to conclude you view your rudeness prior to my joining the crew as above reproach?"

Those brown eyes brightened further in appreciation of Seven's riposte. "Of course. My attitude was entirely appropriate to the situation. In fact, I consider anything less than shooting you on sight the height of restraint."

Seven glanced down, again fighting that unfamiliar twitch to her lips. Her hands dropped to her sides, mirroring his pose. She idly reflected on how odd it was that their proximity to each other had not altered a single millimeter, yet the distance between them had lessened just the same. "Then I accept your apology...and duly appreciate the magnitude of your earlier control."

"I'm glad to hear it." Chakotay's demeanor altered slightly, becoming at once more serious and more openly concerned. "How are you settling in?" he asked softly.

Seven stiffened, unwilling to delve into the morass of emotions she'd experienced since she awakened in Sickbay with a weakened body and isolated mind. "The process is...ongoing."

"I understand." His knowing gaze considered her. "I tried to tell the Captain that given a choice, you would probably have wanted to go back."

With those words, in that moment, Seven realized that Chakotay alone of all the beings on Voyager had some clue to how she was feeling. The powerful sense of belonging, the seductive lure of submerging the individual will in the flood of the group mind. The terrible vulnerability of singularity. She'd experienced glimpses of his own time in a gestalt---a smaller community not connected to the rest of the Borg. The memories were tinged with emotions she was just beginning to recognize---the passion and joy discovered in the camaraderie warring with fear and anger at the violation and manipulation of his consciousness.

Seven pondered what it had cost him to willingly join the Borg again, however briefly. To plunge into that sea of whispers to reach out to her and pull her from the Collective to become an individual once more.

She wondered whether he ever felt the loneliness of the isolated mind.

"According to the Captain, my wants in this case are irrelevant." She winced at the bitterness of her own tone.

An awkward silence fell between them. Seven was startled when Chakotay closed the gap, one hand lightly resting on her shoulder. The warmth of his touch was shocking, in both the change in temperature and the unfamiliar sensation. "I'm sorry," he murmured before dropping his arm abruptly, as if suddenly regretting his violation of her space. He stepped back and turned, moving across the room. "I made some adjustments down here that I thought might make things easier for you."

Again, Seven was thrown off-guard by the brief moment of rapport between them, and by Chakotay's apparent consideration of her predicament. She followed the commander's powerful figure down an aisle, wondering what he considered an appropriate form of aid in her efforts to adapt.

They reached a corner of the cargo bay not far from the alcoves. Technologically enhanced memory functions and spatial observations rendered a query in the form of a statement. "The orientation of these shelves has been altered, and panels added to the back of the framework."

"Correct." Chakotay paused by the last section and indicated a small panel set into the wall. "This has been coded specifically to you, though the standard security/medical/command overrides are still in place." He tapped in his own command code. Suddenly one section of shelving swung outward, creating an opening.

At his gesture, Seven preceded him into the oddly concealed space. The "door" shut behind them.

It was small, but not claustrophobically so. The panel-lined shelves formed 3-meter barriers on two sides, with the cargo bay walls completing the rectangle. Contrasting with the uniform gray of the environment was a large, overstuffed wing chair upholstered in a pattern dominated by deep burgundy. A few pillows of crimson and gold were tucked against the back, while a throw in a complementary tapestry style adorned the back and top. A small table/cabinet rested by one plump arm. On it sat a teacup and saucer, a small ceramic dish holding a spoon and mesh strainer, a teapot, a redwood box and a book. A real book, an antique-looking hardback covered in stiff navy weave embossed with gold. The standard lighting had also been replaced by a wall sconce, its amber light perfectly angled to fall across the chair.

Stunned, Seven took in the clearly non-utilitarian furnishings. She looked toward her commanding officer for some explanation and found Chakotay watching *her*, a hint of anxiety or uncertainty clouding his features.

Nervousness seemed to make him restless, as he indicated two doors set in the cargo bay walls. "I've had a small lavatory/sonic shower installed here, and a closet for your clothes and things." He looked away with a slight shrug, his tone distinctly offhand. "I thought you shouldn't have to go to the gym or use the communal facilities, even if you don't need a whole cabin to sleep in."

He moved over to the table and opened the box. Scents of fruits and herbs teased Seven's nostrils over the short distance. "I checked with the Doc," Chakotay hastily assured her, "and all of these herbal tea blends are safe for you to consume." His fingers, long and strong and golden-brown, ran across the small packets. "They're arranged by the power of their scents and flavors. You may want to start on the milder ones until your palate adjusts."

Seven's continued silence seemed to unnerve the usually unflappable commander, as Chakotay abruptly closed the box and made an uncharacteristically jerky gesture to indicate the room. "If you have any changes that you'd like to make don't hesitate to mention them. I just thought---well, I figured you should have a place of your own."

When Chakotay laid a hand on the chair, Seven suddenly noticed that the upholstery showed some slight imperfections, likely indications of prior use. He must have noticed her evaluation because his fingers tightened on the fabric. "I'm sorry the chair isn't quite new. We've had to cut replicator rations severely until all the repairs are completed."

Seven detected a slight reddening on the flesh above his cheekbones. "If you don't like this chair, as soon as we have enough resources you can create your own and I'll take this one back to my quarters. Um, would you like to try it out?" He held out a hand to her.

She stared at the offered member, thinking again of their time in the link. Hesitantly, she reached out and let her palm rest against his, narrowed eyes waiting for him to flinch as his fingers closed over the Borg metal still embedded in the back of her hand.

But instead his expression simply relaxed with relief as he ushered her onto the seat, moving pillows and subtly encouraging her to shift her limbs. It was surprisingly easy to sink into the cushions, some long-forgotten instinct causing her to curl up her legs and angle into a corner formed by the chair back and one of the wide wings. It felt...cozy, sparking some hazy recollection of rainy days and sheltering arms and hands cradling ceramic mugs, steaming and fragrant.

Seven's thoughts were interrupted by the brush of Chakotay's fingers once more as he laid the book in her hands. She automatically read the title, one finger tracing the flowing gold script. "The Last Unicorn," she said, "by Peter S. Beagle." She looked up at Chakotay, struck by his renewed serenity, as if her accepting his gift have given him some measure of peace in exchange. "Does this mythical creature hold some significance?" she asked, brow furrowing in puzzlement.

Again Chakotay's cheeks colored. "It's a story I remembered from my boyhood, about a creature who is forced to become human. She's separated from her people, and changed so much by her experiences she wonders if she'll ever fit in again." He looked away, the flush increasing. "It reminded me of you."

Again, Seven had that feeling of kinship, as if she wasn't entirely alone in the vastness of the universe, in the silence of her mind. And on some level, Seven felt contentment for the first time since she had accepted her exile from the Collective.

Safe harbor at last.

"Well, I guess I've delayed your regeneration cycle long enough, Seven." Chakotay made his way to the matching panel on this side of the shelving and activated it.

Chakotay was nearly through the opening when Seven felt sure enough of her voice to speak. "Commander," she called.

He paused and looked back. "Yes, Seven?"

"I will not be requiring another chair. This one is...sufficient." Unconsciously she grasped the book in her hands, feeling its texture, reassuring herself of its solidity, its reality. The fact of the gift, and its significance. She said softly, "Thank you."

Chakotay searched her face a moment, and what he read there made his own brighten into another of those surprisingly boyish smiles. "You're welcome," he replied, and left.

Seven pulled down the throw and tucked it around her legs, sat back and noted the way the light turned the cream-colored pages golden as she opened her book.

Her regeneration cycle could wait.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed with great joy and constructive criticism treasured as a rare gift.


End file.
